Suburban Dreams
by Amatara
Summary: Dale Cooper and Albert Rosenfield, undercover in a gay bar. Pre-series, and somewhat more serious than the premise would suggest.


Author's Note:

Written for nemo_everbeing , who asked for my take on the 'undercover in a gay bar' scene from Dale Cooper's autobiography (the TP novel 'My Life, My Tapes'). For those of you unfamiliar with it, the scene involves Cooper, tracking a serial killer who picks his victims at gay bars, doing some undercover surveillance – in black leather pants. (This is official Twin Peaks canon. Yes. *g*) Also for DBKate, who already wrote the best take on that scene that anyone could ever write. I couldn't hope to improve on her effort, so I went for a somewhat different focus. With an attempt to touch on some real-life issues along the way.

* * *

**Suburban Dreams  
**

* * *

The second he steps in is when his sunglasses fog up.

Albert mutters a curse, one that drowns completely in the pounding bass thrum. A few heads turn in his direction, and he keeps his eyes down as he circles the dance-floor, making sure not to look either too hostile _or _too friendly. A bit of a challenge, since he usually doesn't give a damn. Seems he's doing okay, though, because by the time he's reached the bar, no one is sparing him a second glance.

Great. Perfect, even. The last thing he needs is to have some guy pick up on whatever vibes he is or isn't giving off, professional or otherwise. At least _he_ isn't the one having to go undercover. That'd be a laugh. Not that anyone would've gotten the joke.

One great thing about his line of work: no one ever asks about your sex life. Correction – no one even thinks you _have _a sex life. Not when you're slicing up corpses for a living, they don't. The right attitude doesn't hurt either, of course. Convince enough people you're hell to live with, and if you keep that up, no one even considers your having something like preferences, standard or otherwise. Which suits him just fine. So far it's worked on everyone, including Gordon and the boys at the lab. Diane he isn't sure about. She's never confronted him, but he's pretty sure she knows anyway.

And then there's Cooper, who's in a different category altogether.

Take this case, for one. He drove Cooper up here a few hours ago, all polished up in black shirt and leather pants, acting for all the world like a guy off to some party, rather than chasing down a serial killer. He wasn't sure what to make of Cooper's enthusiasm – still isn't, now he's actually seen this joint. Though he probably isn't the best-placed to judge. In all truth, he's neither firmly enough out of the closet or stuck deeply enough _in _it to feel any attraction to places like these. Serial killer or no.

That, and he detests the Pet Shop Boys.

Right now, thank God, there's no Pet Shop Boys but some kind of upbeat Latin tune that's slightly more tolerable. He finds Cooper at the far side of the dance-floor, being drooled over by a fortyish guy in an Armani suit. A whole arsenal of drinks lined up on the table before him. All untouched, except for a simple red wine.

Good. At least Cooper's kept his wits about him. A feat at which Albert is almost succeeding – except for the little fact that, for some reason, he can't seem to take his eyes off Cooper even if he'd want to.

Retreating towards the bar, he feels faintly guilty indulging in the sight. Cooper has his back towards him, and just watching those shoulders stretch that tighter-than-usual shirt makes something in his stomach flip. Something that's got squat to do with tonight's steak and pie dinner, horrid as it was. The Armani guy's hand drifts dangerously close to Cooper's ass, and the pang he feels is less unexpected than the sudden rush of heat towards his groin.

_Fuck. _Tearing his eyes away, Albert grabs himself a barstool and plunks down on it blindly. Buries his nose in the menu and tries to get worked up over the cocktail list – a sorry waste of perfectly good alcohol, a thought that's seldom failed to distract him. Whatever helps to slow the flush he knows is creeping across his cheekbones even now. And for good reason.

Naturally, that's just when Cooper has to notice him, throw him a conspiratorial smile that makes his mouth turn dry. And now, of course, he can't get off the chair however much he wishes he could. Correction – _can _get off the chair, but not with his ego intact.

"What brings you here, Albert?" Somehow, it seems, Cooper's managed to ditch the Armani guy. "Weren't you supposed to be down at the lab?" He casts around for a free seat, but Albert's taken the last one and he sure as hell isn't letting go of it now.

"I was," Albert says. "Finished up for the night. Results should be in by tomorrow, noon at the latest." He watches Cooper press up against the bar beside him, swaying ever so gently with the beat. Swallows and feels the temperature creep up another notch. "Backup you requested is out there, by the way. Four guys. So far, no cars fitting the description. And Browne's ready to take over if you say the word. Your call."

Cooper lets that pass, which is hardly a surprise. Instead he points at the pair of narrow black sneakers that, apparently, came with the pants.

"Would you mind relocating to a table, Albert? These shoes are becoming a little uncomfortable." Cooper's expression is one of long-suffering misery. And there, but for the grace of God, goes Albert's last excuse to stay where he is. He nods a silent 'after you' before he relinquishes the barstool.

Just keep looking straight ahead, wait till Cooper's back is turned, and with any luck he can manage this without looking like an utter –

Cooper wheels back just when he's slid off his seat.

"Albert, I was meaning to – _Oh._"

From the look on Cooper's face, there's no doubt he's seen exactly what he shouldn't have.

The rush of heat this timeis to his cheeks and nowhere else. Still, there's a second where he could have saved his ass, said something coarse and manly involving the words 'Coop' and 'not flattering yourself', but instead he just stands there, not getting out a word.

"Albert," Cooper says, and it's not a question. More like an apology, if that makes sense. "I – I didn't realize –"

Even then, it's not too late to change the subject, not too late to stop this thing before it becomes a monster that turns and bites his head off. Or maybe it is, because Cooper's eyes have gotten that gleam again, the one that means he's not getting off the hook. For a second, he could swear there's something else there too, but then it's gone and there's just realization left.

"Albert – how long have you been in love with me?"

He leans back hard into the bar, the sharp wooden edge biting into his skin. Starts on a headshake that's pure autopilot, not to mention pure denial, except when he's halfway through he still hasn't thought up the verbal response to match. Denial it is, then. "Cooper, don't talk crap. I'm not –"

Somehow, Cooper's managed to take hold of his wrist, holds it up to him like a precious piece of evidence.

"Your pulse is around a hundred and thirty beats per minute. Speeding up even now." And if the man's investigative methods always impressed the hell out of him, right now he hates them with a passion.

"It doesn't –" He was going for a snarl, but it comes out closer to a whimper. "It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't it?" Softly.

Cooper's fingers are warm on his wrist, and it's not an intimate gesture, it shouldn't be, except that it _is_. And before he has a clue what the hell's going on, Cooper has lifted his hand and guided Albert's fingers towards his throat.

All the blood that just drained from his face comes flooding back with a vengeance. The bar's edge is a knifepoint against his back, sharp like Cooper's heartbeat, jumping under his hand – so very, very fast. Cooper's hand on his, and it seems the most natural thing to bring in his other hand, cup the nape of Cooper's neck and stroke, ever so gently, with one thumb.

It's only when Cooper's lips part that it occurs to him maybe, just maybe, he should lean in and do the same.

As kisses go, this one's almost chaste. Just the sweep of Cooper's mouth against his own – slow, halting nips, more exploration than impulse. He forces himself to go slow, to wait for Cooper's free hand to reach for his waist before he risks sliding his own palm down, towards the small of Cooper's back. And it's not that he can slow down that _other _reaction, hitting home even now, the throb of warmth against his belly. The leather at his fingertips is supple, slightly frayed at the seams, and much cooler than he'd imagined. He rubs it lightly, feeling muscles tense, then relax again, something inside him unclenching along with them.

He finds the bottom of Cooper's lip, sucks it between his own. Tastes black olives, mediocre Chardonnay and a hint of something sweet that's impossible to identify. In the not-quite-background, the Latin beat fades unsubtly into a blaring jazz tune. Cooper's pulse is a rushing, miniature flood under his hand, but still slower than his own heart, slamming against his ribcage like it's trying for a hit-and-run.

When he pulls away, he's never been so glad to have a barstool under his ass.

"That was…" Cooper blinks slowly, one stark white hand pressed against the bar's surface. Not for support – like ensuring himself it's still solid. "I think –" Unsteady breath. "I – I've _missed_ this." A gleam in his face that Albert could swear he's seen before. Not the pink flush of concentration but something else, something rarer. Then, almost bluntly, "Why didn't you tell me?"

To his surprise, he actually finds himself answering the question. "Coop, if you live in a world where telling that to another guy – a colleague, at that – is just your run-of-the-mill after-dinner conversation, you're welcome to it. But that's not my world." One look at Cooper's face telling him that's _exactly_ the kind of world he's been living in. And with all his instincts for reading people, how can the man be such a goddamn innocent when it comes to stuff like that?

"How long?" Cooper asks. "Not from before –" Tone perfectly neutral apart from that hitch near the end, the one they both know is short for _Caroline._

"Yeah. From before."

Cooper nods, once, like it doesn't surprise him. "Albert, I once swore I'd never get involved with someone inside the Bureau." Frown lines deepening around his eyes. "Of course, falling in love with someone from _outside_ turned out to be an even worse call." The pain in his voice carefully buried, but not nearly deep enough for Albert not to hear. "Since then, somehow I… I never considered that – "

He cuts in as much for Cooper's sake as his own. "_'Considered'_? Cooper, not to burst your bubble here, but to most of us human beings there isn't much _consideration _involved. It happens, period. If it's something you have to _consider_, I don't know if this is – "

"I don't know what it is, either. All I know is, _this…_" Biting his lip, Cooper traces his jawline with one finger. "Somehow_ – _itfeels like a good thing."

And, God damn him, he _wants_ to believe that, he does. It's not that he's had bunches of straight guys deluding themselves into falling for him for whatever reason – but it did happen, once, and that was once too often. Cooper's hardly a fool, but he's not beyond being naïve. Not in stuff like this, he isn't. Then again, if there's a guy to whom labels like 'gay' or 'straight' are irrelevant, it's probably Cooper, too, but –

"I need a drink," he mutters, and God, he's too tired to think about this, not to mention run the whole fucking analysis in his head.

"We're on duty, Albert." Hint of a smile in the voice, and he scowls back dutifully.

"All the more reason." Pausing to scrub at his eyes, he can almost feel Cooper's look boring into him.

"Albert…" The hand on his arm is cautious, insubstantial. "I have no intention of jeopardizing our friendship for the sake of something I don't even know what it is." Long, awkward beat. "So what about you? Would you risk getting involved with someone, knowing that –"

"I've got tough skin," he says, before Cooper can finish talking him to death. And then he doesn't even know _why_ he's said that, except that possibly, maybe, yeah, he wants this, too. "Don't call it 'getting involved', though. That sounds like I'd have to buy you flowers first."

"What would you call it, then?"

"Supposing, hypothetically, I'd be calling it anything – how about 'living a little'?"

Cooper's eyes are dark and indescribable, close enough to drown in. "You don't feel like we're living now?"

"I'm just saying – sometimes, we tend to forget we should."

"I don't want that," Cooper says. And it should be awkward as hell to just be picking up where they left off, except the transition between looking and touching is suddenly insubstantial, and then he's got Cooper's face in his hands and is nipping the outline of his cheek.

There's no way this isn't going to get real messy, real soon, but to hell with that.

"Albert –" Cooper pulls back slightly, fixes him with a dead-serious look. "Have I ever told you… I value your company a great deal?"

He swallows and strokes Cooper's throat with his thumb. "You might have mentioned something vaguely similar, but not like that, no." He raises an eyebrow. "So? You _going _to tell me?"

"No." And if Cooper's eyes weren't twinkling that much, he'd swear the man was goddamn serious, too. "Just checking if I had."

"Fuck you," he grunts, which makes Cooper's smile grow solid.

"One step at a time, Albert. One step at a time."


End file.
